The Threefold Man
by Naaer
Summary: "That's all he was born with. A hand that wasn't his in a jar, and a plucky ginger gal. She wasn't exactly his mother (perish the thought!) and the Doctor definitely wasn't his father. He was one of a three-fold cord, together but separate."


Sorry if you were expecting a Space Dementia update. I honestly have been working on it as much as my spare time allows...I even wrote more than my usual chapter length, but after a while my brain kinda went 'No. :| ' to Doctor-werewolf-themed things.

So here is a...thing. Inspired by the writings of Patrick Gale. I kinda imagine the human Ten showing his creative side more -because he has more time to do nothing, and less time to live. His human and superior Time Lord sides tend to clash. More of an extended drabble.

* * *

His eyes snapped open, unfocussed and bleary. The room was clothed in a dusky blue-purple, and through the ornate French windows, the moon cast silvery squares.

Jonathan sat up gingerly, heavy with sleep, and felt the mattress dip with his weight. He wanted to sleep, but the images were fresh in his mind. Red, orange and silver painted themselves on his retinas; the hues burned in their brightness and would not leave him. He rubbed his eyes and blinked, once, twice, and then again as his vision still struggled to assert itself in the darkness. A jaw-cracking yawn escaped him and he scratched said jaw in thought. He really should get it down in something tangible -and as soon as possible.

Jonathan relieved himself and then splashed cold water on his face, before actually noticing the white thing stuck to his left cheek. He practically peeled the sticky residue of the tablet off his skin. Huh. He must have forgotten to take it before bed last night and as a result of it being left on the bed-linen...well... It wasn't like he was going to take it anyway. Despite the protest of Rose and his GP, he'd been prescribed the anti-depressants mere months after being stranded for eternity on London, Earth. Peh, he still had a Time Lord mind. Even his sire went through gloomy patches. Well, he was bitter and sullen all the time actually, but the _point was_ that his brain would cleverly sort out his serotonin-dopamine inbalance. He flushed it down the toilet without so much as a care.

Jonathan took a glance back at the bed, and at his mate's sleeping figure. Rose, his _Arkytior. _He was lost in this world, in which he didn't belong, but she was like his anchor. Well, it was a little cliché, perhaps a bit storybook and purple, but it was true. Jackie and Pete just tolerated his presence. If Rose wasn't there...he'd be floating away, lost in a faceless crowd. He was already bearing another man's face; he didn't need it to be worsened.

A few steps away from the grand staircase lead to his studio. Rose professed it small for his burgeoning creativity, but he like the limited space. It made him feel secure. Anchored.

Apart from the fact it was cold. Jonathan tugged his hoodie tighter to his skin before messily tieing the smock around his waist. He clicked on the utility counter's small kettle and then flicked open the cap of a new turpentine bottle. Then, at his perch before the dark wooden easel he seated himself.

Ah, yes. It came back to him. It was clearer this time. Sometimes he's wake and then the thumbnails of colour would be gone. He could try and get them down with whatever he had, wherever he was (coffee on a napkin in Costa, a borrowed crayon at Tony's nursery, even burnt wood at a park when he was struck with inspiration) but sometimes...it just wasn't the same afterwards. He envisioned being the realist at first, but it was too stiff and never right. The limitless hand of abstraction had taken him, and he was lost.

Jonathan selected his weapon of choice -a small hog-hair brush and daubed cadmium yellow on the blank canvas. He painted huge pieces, but possessed no large brushes. Even if the finished result -or what he had in mind- was detailed he liked to worked with a small hand, scales of colour laid down with painful precision. He wasn't one of those splashy-throwy artists.

Jonathon propped his mobile next to his ear with this shoulder as he placed more supplies. A good deal more yellow and red. Yes, and perhaps some gold leaf. Two more rolls on canvas and supports. He nearly freaked out the sleepy receptionist with his munchings of a half-eaten chocolate digestive tucked in a paint-splattered pocket.

An hour -maybe more- passed before the image began to take shape. A sea of red, with pinpricks of brown that highlighted the softest field. A stunning wash of yellow and more red, which melded into a rich, sunny orange. It wasn't like any other shade of orange. It practically sparkled.

The underpainting of a glass gleam hidden behind a forest of silver leaf-like shapes he began to flesh out, adding white touches here and there. Back to the fabulous orange.

It made him smile and reminded him of Donna, with her no-sass mouth and fiery hair. That's all he was born with. A hand that wasn't his in a jar, and a plucky ginger gal. She wasn't exactly his mother (perish the thought!) and the Doctor definitely wasn't his father. He was one of a three-fold cord, together but separate.

Then, who were they?

They helped his existence. But the Doctor could have never have met Donna (except without the dying and the Earth going to pieces part) and then maybe he wouldn't have been made.

Then maybe someone else could have touched the jar- someone else whom the timelines converged on.

Maybe even Jack.

Jonathan pulled a face and skittered away from that particular train of thought. He tucked his brush carefully behind his ear and reached forward for his tea-filled mug (the one that Rose had got him, blue and emblazoned with 'Trust me -I'm a Doctor') but he only managed a swig before his mobile trilled.

Putting the tea down and rolling his eyes -he highly suspected who it was- he answered it.

"Tyler City Morgue: You stab 'em, we slab 'em". He grinned and waited, dabbing more paint.

There was a pause and a breath.

"Yeah, that's really funny, Jonathon".

He could only grin wider, and laugh like an evil genius in his mind.

"Jonathan, what are you doing?"

He shifted the phone to his other ear, brush still in hand. "I'm...dabbling."

"Mmmhmm. Do you know what time it is?"

Jonathan looked at his watch but didn't really read it (plus there was a splat of drying paint on the glass face).

"Not so early that Chromos was open."

"How long have you been up for?" There was a note in Rose's voice that he didn't like too much.

"Erm...not long. An hour, tops. I've got to get this finished, anyway."

"Jonathan Tyler-Smith, you are such a bad liar". The smile in her voice was infectious and warmed him inside-out.

"Maybe one of my better qualities, _Arkytior_"

"Well, there's a press conference this morning. You can't not be there, I'm afraid."

Jonathan sagged with disbelief. "Aw, really?"

Rose sighed, "Yes, _really._" A pause. "I'll be there with you, Jonathan. Remember that." Her voice was soft and concerned him.

"..._Arkytior?"_

"You need to get ready. I'm sure there's paint all over you. See you in the kitchen."

"Well-" Jonathan was about to portest at her bold statement, but then in his small mirror he saw white paint on his front tousle.

"I love you, Rose."

"I love you too, my threefold man."

The phone clicked off as she hung up and Jonathon was left standing for a while, mobile in hand and thinking in the far distance.

The smile that came next reached his eyes in a way it hadn't for a three months.


End file.
